


dreams, and thoughts thereof

by thenerdlordparade



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/M, M/M, also this is literally only rated teen because of some swearing, and a little bit of az/crowley if you like? interpret how you wish, and guess what it's all swearing when crowley comes up, and listen, apart from that this fic is SCHMOOPY AS HECKE, aziraphale has two hands!!!, i have not seen any az/reader stuff on here, listen, mention of casual crowley/reader, pre-relationship but hoo boy there's a whole lotta pining, so i can't NOT post this here because like. this angel! deserves love!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 09:12:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19248175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thenerdlordparade/pseuds/thenerdlordparade
Summary: it’s a late night at mr. fell’s bookshop and you’re very sleepy, but you don’t want to go home.





	dreams, and thoughts thereof

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact: i had queen’s “love of my life” on repeat for... probably at least 80% of the time i was writing this   
> ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

 

it was late. precisely how late, it didn't matter, really- of the two people sitting on a couch in the back room of a little known bookshop that sold very few books, one was an angel who therefore had no need for sleep, and the other, well. 

 

the other really should have gone to bed two hours ago. at _least._

 

but if there was one thing you were, it was stubborn. you didn't _want_ to go to sleep yet because that would mean several unpleasant things: you would have to get up from your comfortable seat, you would have to stop reading, and, possibly the most heavily weighted of these things, you would have to say good night to aziraphale and go home. you didn't want to go home, didn't want the night to end. 

 

unfortunately your stubbornness didn't only apply there- it was true, yes, that you had been harbouring some embarrassingly soft feelings towards aziraphale for some time, and it was true, yes, that crowley - whom you had a casual 'friends with benefits' sort of arrangement with, when he wasn't annoying the piss out of you - was hounding you every day to tell az how you truly felt.

 

(to be more accurate, crowley was constantly on your ass to "just fucking kiss the angel already".) 

 

it was also true that you stubbornly believed that aziraphale had no reason to feel the same way about you. why would he? by your reckoning, you were just another mortal, barely a blip on his eternal timeline. he could be friendly, sure, even fond to some degree, in the same sort of fondness that a pet owner has for a favoured feline friend, but true blue _romantic_ fondness? you were convinced that the likelihood of _that_ was slim to none. 

 

(besides, you had eyes. you saw how aziraphale looked at crowley.) 

 

but... you still liked to spend time with him, impossible though you thought a romance was. it made your heart hurt sometimes (a lot of times), but you still just couldn't turn down an opportunity to be near him. 

 

which brought things back to the present: you were practically falling asleep where you sat, your eyes closed more than they were open, but if you admitted defeat then you'd have to go home. maybe if you just didn't say anything, then aziraphale wouldn't say anything either. the book you were reading was closed and held safely to your chest as you drowsed; it wasn't one of aziraphale's, just a well-worn paperback from your personal collection. to you though, all books were precious, not just the ones that had been around for a hundred or more years.

 

(it's a value you hold that aziraphale finds utterly endearing, were you to ask him.)

 

you've read that book enough times that you could probably read it via osmosis from where it's clutched to you. it's what you were trying to do, in between longer and longer stretches of sleep. before you knew it though, you were asleep, warm and comfortable on an angel's couch.

 

your thoughts of aziraphale must have influenced your subconscious; you found yourself in a very pleasant dream with him. it's vague, like most dreams are, but the parts that were clear were almost painfully accurate to some of your lovesick imaginings: you, sitting curled into aziraphale's side, head tucked into the spot between his shoulder and his neck, and one of his arms curved 'round your shoulders. the touch was light, as though he was afraid you'd startle like a panicky bird. 

 

he said something, and the words blurred into an incomprehensible hum. all you knew were the soothing vibrations rumbling up from his chest into where you're pressed against him. you turned further into him in response, one hand grasping loosely at his overcoat. you think you felt him freeze, stock still, for a moment, then his voice sounded again. it was still just a hum to you, but it's a hum with a familiar rhythm- the specific cadence of your name. 

 

you shifted, lifting your head from his shoulder to look at him. there's an unreadable expression on his face. you couldn't place any one specific emotion to it, but you could see flickers of them in his eyes: panic, concern, and, you think, _possibly,_ a deep longing you've only ever seen directed at crowley. 

 

the dream sharpened with abrupt clarity on one singular fact: _this is a dream, so what's stopping you from kissing him?_

 

the answer to that was _absolutely nothing._

 

and yet, you still couldn't quite do it; you kissed his cheek instead, softly, sweetly. you had scattered thoughts of _when you kiss him for real, you'd do it properly and ask first_  as you settle back down into his shoulder. 

 

a moment - an eternity - later, the dream dissolved and you sank more deeply into your slumber. 

 

* * *

 

the night had been going well for aziraphale. evenings spent reading quietly with you were always ones he treasured. crowley was a dear friend, to be sure, but he simply didn't share the same love for the written word that you and aziraphale did. crowley was loud and wild and fast; you could be those things too, but you were more often quiet and peaceful and slow- just the right pace for az.

 

these evenings mostly followed the same structure: the two of you would settle on one of the couches in the back of the shop, a pot of tea on the table before you, and each dive into a good book. sometimes you would talk, discuss the books you were each reading. other times, the gentle clink of china and the rustle of pages turning were the only sounds.

 

inevitably, the human need for sleep would overcome you and you would begin to doze, tucked into the corner of the couch. usually, this would be when aziraphale would rouse you and send you home, back to your flat next door.

 

this night was different.

 

_this_ night, instead of burrowing into the smattering of pillows at the end of the couch, you tipped the other way and burrowed into _him._

 

how... how was he supposed to react, in this situation? what was he supposed to _do?_ you needed to go home, needed to get the rest that you required, but... but...

 

you were soft, where you pressed into him. the weight of your head on his shoulder was comforting. perhaps he could just... indulge, a tiny bit. carefully, mindful that you couldn't be very far under, he moved his arm up to curve around your shoulders. he kept his touch light, but it was still enough to have you sigh, eyes fluttering.

 

nothing else for it- it was time to send you home. if you had remained asleep, then perhaps... but no, it wouldn't have been proper. he spoke softly, not wanting to startle you, telling you that it was late and you really should be getting home.

 

he thought you would wake further, stretch, fumble out an apology for being so close (which he would brush off, you were asleep, after all, it was perfectly alright), and be on your sleepy little way.

 

instead, you ducked your head even further into his shoulder, and clutched gently at his coat.

 

he froze, heart in his throat. oh, if he could just _stay_ with you like that. but he couldn't, _shouldn't_ \- it was late and you were clearly very tired, he couldn't take advantage of your lowered inhibitions this way. if he did, he may never forgive himself.

 

he swallowed thickly, and said your name.

 

the weight on his shoulder lifted, and when he turned his head, he met your eyes. a moment passed; just as he was about to speak again, you leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek, only just missing the corner of his mouth. his breath caught in his chest, stuttered to a stop, came back in a soft gasp. he blinked, turning further to look down at you, but you were already settled back into the crook of his shoulder, fast asleep once more.

 

you kissed him.

 

_you_ had kissed _him._

 

you, wonderful _you,_ perfect in your imperfections, had kissed him- well, kissed his cheek, but it still meant much the same thing: that somehow, he had managed completely on accident to evoke the same soft feelings _from_ you that he had _for_ you.

 

in hindsight, your feelings should have been much more obvious to him. now that aziraphale has thought about it, it was so clear he almost couldn't believe he'd been so blind. the nights reading, the days keeping him company in the shop, the times you brewed his tea just the way he liked it, the gifts of rare books and home-baked cookies and trips to his favourite sushi restaurant, they all spoke of someone utterly _lovestruck._  

 

or... at least a very caring friend, but friends didn't usually kiss each other's cheeks, not like that. 

 

(that was more of a french custom, and even he knew that it was for greetings, not late-night impulse.)

 

he let out a deep sigh, and with it, one of his gentler 'miracles': a nudge to remain asleep, to rest until morning, with good dreams. this wasn't the time for him to wonder at the depth of your feelings; no, at this moment, his focus should have been on setting you up on his couch to sleep the rest of the night away.

 

a conversation would happen tomorrow. hopefully, it would go well, and you would agree to let him court you properly.

 

for now though, he squeezed your shoulders in a gentle hug, slid his hand into where yours clutched at his chest. he broke your grip on his coat and brought your hand up to press a barely-there kiss of his own to your knuckles. 

 

that was as far as he'd let himself indulge at that stage; carefully, he removed himself from your grasp, and laid you down on the couch. the softest pillow he placed under your head. another pillow took the place of your book, which he set safely out of the way on the table. he took the blanket spread across the back of the couch and tucked you in with it. you instinctively snuggled down into the blanket, holding the pillow to your chest.

 

it was utterly, wholly endearing.

 

aziraphale brushed a lock of hair out of your face.

 

he then turned away and busied himself with clearing up the tea set.


End file.
